The Heather-Moon
born, than the four appeared on the scene. Mrs. West was scarcely civil
to them at first, until Basil whispered (only in fun, of course, but she
took it seriously, as she often does when people think they're being
humorous), "If you're nasty to those boys, it will be a bad
advertisement. They won't read your books or tell their friends they're
the best books going!" She was quite kind and elderly-sisterly to them
after that. But nice boys as they are, it did grate on me having them
make jokes every minute, even about that wonderful, pathetic little room
with the railed-off furniture and curtained wall-bed.
Luckily I had been reading about the cottage and everything else
concerning the Burns family while I dressed. I knew already how Burns's
father built the tiny house with his own hands; how the night that
Robert was born, a fearful storm came up which threatened to sweep away
the whole biggin; and how the poor young mother had to be hustled off to
a neighbour's cottage. How little the poor couple guessed that the baby
born "in thunder, lightning and in rain" would make of the clay biggin a
world's shrine, to be bought by the nation for four thousand pounds.
Maybe it cost five pounds to build. How I did want to believe that from
one of the bowls kept on a shelf in that room of the wall-bed Burns had
eaten his porridge as a child. Of course that would be almost too good
to be true; but he did eat his porridge in that room, anyhow--and often
wanted more than he could get. What brains of genius have been nourished
on porridge and oaten cake in this country of ours! I felt more than
ever proud of my Scottish blood as I stood in that low-ceilinged
cottage; and I wondered if Sir S. had the same glorious thrill. I didn't
know if he had ever before come to Ayr; but I did know that his first
home on our own island of Dhrum must have been much like this--just a
clay biggin with a but and a ben. He, too, was born a genius. He, like
Burns, knew grinding poverty. He, too, was taken up by great ones and
dropped again, for he has told me so.
Once Sir S. was near me for a minute--without his Aline--and I did want
some word to prove that I was still his princess, he my knight. But all
I got from him on the subject was: "Well, do you think the knights
'notice' that you're a princess?"
I stared, bewildered. Then I remembered our conversation in the car,
before Mrs. West came and annexed the front seat. Of course I knew he
meant the American boys.
"They notice that I'm like my mother," said I.
"Oh, is that all?" And he laughed. Then Mrs. West flitted over to ask if
we oughtn't to go to the museum.
It is a pathetic little museum, with intimate relics and countless
pictures of Burns, each one making him look entirely different from all
the others. By and by we went on to the monument, the strange classic
temple that had loomed out of the twilight as we came to Ayr. The road
from town to the monument was the way of Tam o' Shanter's wild ride, or
almost the same; only there's a tram-line now to spoil the romance, if
one chooses to let it be spoiled. As for me, I'd scorn to let romance be
broken by an object so dull as a tram-car. When things are ugly I simply
make them transparent for my eyes, and see through them as if they
didn't exist.
I had to do a good deal of this juggling in the neighbourhood of the
monument; for the booths bristling with Burns souvenirs, and the tea
gardens where crowds drink to Burns's memory in ginger pop and fizzy
lemonade, would be rather dreadful if they were not funny. I'm sure,
though, Burns's sense of humour would make him laugh a mellow, ringing
laugh: if he could see those thousands of bottles of temperance drinks
being emptied in his honour.
It was good to escape from the gay, meretricious gardens to the
graveyard of Alloway Auld Kirk, where Tam o' Shanter's witches danced,
and where Burns's father lies buried. There was peace, too, where the
Brig o' Doon arched its camel-back over a clear brown, rippling stream.
There, through the singing of the water, through the playing of an old
blind fiddler scraping the tune of "Annie Laurie," I could hear the true
Burns song, the music of his thoughts sweetly ringing on, to keep the
world young, as the bright water leaps on forever to give its jewels to
the sea.
We went back from Alloway to Ayr, and lunched early in our own hotel.
The boys lunched early too, and when we started out on the next stage of
our Burns pilgrimage, we saw their red car panting in front of the
hotel. I had heard no talk of new plans for Basil and Mrs. West, but
they must have talked things over with each other or Sir S., for
Blunderbore was vibrating healthily between the Gray Dragon and the Red
Prince. I could have jumped for joy when I saw Blunderbore, and kissed
him on his bonnet. Already in imagination I was in my old place on the
front seat of our car, beside my knight; but the first words of Sir S.
snatched me off again and left me dangling in mid-air.
"Sure your motor's all right again?" he inquired of Basil.
I held my breath for the answer.
"Yes, thanks, quite all right."
"You know"--and Sir S. turned to Mrs. West--"we're delighted to keep you
as our guests."
"You _are_ good," she answered, "but--we mustn't wear out our welcome."
"Don't be afraid of that." (I did so wish I could have been sure whether
his tone was eager or only cordial! Probably Mrs. West was wishing the
same.)
"Thanks a thousand times, but we'll sample our own car for a while. We
shall meet and exchange impressions. And perhaps--after Edinburgh----"
She broke off, leaving the rest to our imagination. Mine was so lively
that it gave my heart a pinch. I could see what she meant as clearly as
if she had held a photograph before my eyes: me, with mother, waving
good-byes from a hotel door; she and her brother transferred permanently
to the Gray Dragon, the Row forgotten; Blunderbore's nose turned meekly
back toward Carlisle; Mrs. James out of the picture. Just for an instant
I could have cried. Then I reminded myself for the twentieth time that
in a few days _nothing_ can matter, because I shall have my own dear,
beautiful mother, who will make up to me for everybody and everything
else.
I don't know how I should have borne it if Mrs. James had wanted to sit
in front, but the angel didn't. And presently there was I in my old
place, feeling as if weeks instead of hours had elapsed (yes "elapsed"
is the most distance-expressing word) since I last sat shoulder to
shoulder with Sir S.
That feeling of long-ago-ness made me a little shy, and to save my life
I couldn't think of a word to say except about the weather; so I said
nothing at all, and he said the same. By and by I began to count. When I
had got up to five hundred, and still he hadn't spoken, I knew I should
certainly burst if nothing happened before a thousand.
"Well?" he murmured at last in an isolated way.
"Five hundred and eighty-six," I counted aloud inadvertently.
"Eh?" said he.
"I was just seeing how many I should have to count before you spoke."
"H'm! I'm afraid you do find me a dull companion after all your latest
acquisitions. But what can I do? In a way I'm your guardian temporarily.
I can't let you run about the country alone with hordes of young men. I
may seem selfish; but I have done my best for you since other and
younger knights came upon the field."
"That _is_ hypocritical!" I flung at him. "You shed me on others because
you like the society of a grown-up woman better than mine; and then you
pretend you're doing it for my sake. I _like_ that!"
"I thought you would like it. That's why I did it."
"Not because you wanted to talk to Mrs. West?"
"Oh, of course I like talking to her. Don't you like talking to her
brother, and all that drove of boys?"
"Why--yes, I like talking to them well enough, but----"
"But what?"
"You ought to _know_, without telling."
"I don't know. Are we playing at cross purposes?"
"How can I tell, if you can't?"
"How can I, if you _won't_?"
"Oh, don't let's argue about nothing! Let's be happy--perfectly happy."
"In other words, if milk has been spilt, don't water it with salt tears,
but leave it to collect cream."
"Yes. Why doesn't everybody treat spilt milk like that?"
"It doesn't occur to poor worried humanity. It wouldn't occur to me in
other society--Princess."
"Thank you, Sir Knight." I couldn't resist nestling my shoulder closer
to his in joy and gratitude: and then an odd thing happened. A tiny
shock of electricity seemed to flash through his shoulder to mine. I
never felt anything like it before. It made my heart stop and afterward
beat fast. I had to talk of something irrelevant in a hurry, so I
grabbed at Burns: and indeed we ought not even for a minute to have
talked of any other subject on this road, which we were exploring only
because of Burns. Not that the high road between Kilmarnock and Dumfries
wouldn't be worth seeing if Burns had never set foot on it, and if no
other great ones had passed that way. It would be worth travelling for
itself alone, for every mile has its own special beauty. And the more I
think of Scotland the more I tell myself she is like a wise connoisseur
(I hope that's the word!) who goes ahead of others to a sale of splendid
pictures, and secures the finest for herself at a bargain. Several of
the prettiest pictures hang on the blue-and-gold walls of the Burns
country.
We came suddenly into view of Arran when the car had spun us along an up
and down road to Ochiltree and Cumnock. It was I who, looking back,
first caught sight of the jagged pinnacles boldly painted in purple on a
far, pale sky. I didn't know what they were, but Sir S. put on the
brakes quickly, and let us stop to look. He remembered the cliffs, and
gazed at them with a light in his eyes which would have told me, if I
hadn't known before, that he had been homesick for Scotland all these
rich, successful years, whether consciously or not.
By and by we came to the Nith, which afterward we did not leave; and
through a green glen wound the "sweet Afton" Burns wrote of and loved
almost as dearly as he loved its elder brother. Here in this valley,
companioned with his own starry thoughts, he walked and rode, happy in
his fellowship with Nature, even though poverty made him an exciseman at
fifty pounds a year. He had to put down smuggling with one hand and
write his glorious poetry with the other, as Mrs. James expressed it. At
New Cumnock he would spend a night sometimes on his way to Ellisland,
his "farm that would not pay," near Dumfries.
Always following in the track of Burns, the Gray Dragon dashed up and
down short, steep, switchbacked hills (which must have tried any steed
of ancient days except a witch's broomstick) and whisked us into
Sanquhar, the "sean cathair" or "old fortress" of earliest Gaelic times,
now snappily called "Sanker." There Queen Mary rested, going to
Dundrennan after the terrible battle of Langside; there Prince Charlie
marched; and there was a monument of granite to the Covenanters Cameron
and Renwick. Burns must have dreamed of Queen Mary when duty brought him
to Sanquhar; and Renwick would have been a person to appeal to him,
because of his youth and good looks, and because the "pretty lad" was
the last martyr to the Covenant. But perhaps he thought most of all of
that Admirable Crichton who was born at Sanquhar, not in the castle of
his wild and brilliant family, but at Eliock House. Burns would maybe
have liked him not so much for taking his degree at St. Andrews when he
was twelve, or for knowing ten languages and many sciences, as for
wandering adventurously over the world, winning tilting matches at the
Louvre, and the love of ladies at Padua and Venice.